


Dawnbreaker

by Gingerhermit



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, Fluff, M/M, Morning After, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:01:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gingerhermit/pseuds/Gingerhermit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for yakuzadog's prompt for the johnlockchallenges Valentine's Day Exchange: Waking up together, preferably after their first time (so fluff domesticity, not morning sex).  Genre: Fluff</p><p>John and Sherlock wake up to a very different situation than they've ever faced before.... the morning after.<br/>*</p><p>Sherlock’s reluctance to shift his gaze lay in something more concrete than idle superstition: anxiety. Once he dared to let his eyes lock on the sleeping form beside him, Sherlock was fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to find the resolve to look away. His gaze would become fixed on the spot, and even when timed passed and John was no longer there (and to be honest, who knew if he ever would be again?), he would be left staring at the empty space where the sheets had forever indented to the shape of a sleeping John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dawnbreaker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YakuzaDog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YakuzaDog/gifts).



> So I briefly toyed with the idea of working some kind of plot into this, and then I was like fuck it, it’s Valentine’s Day. Let Cupid rain down his rose petals from fluffy marshmallow clouds. Warning, you might need to visit your dentist after reading this. Happy Valentine’s Day! *blows sugary kisses*
> 
> For the record, I’ve set this at some point a few years in the future. Mary is no longer in the picture and hasn’t been for a while, by whatever means most suits your fancy (blow her up, ship her off to Alaska, I really don’t care!).

_I breathe easier_

_with the weight of your body_

_lying on my chest._

-Tyler Knott Gregson

 

* * *

Dawn arrived with all the subtly of a panther, slipping through the room and gradually trading the darkness for a dull grey light that dimly illuminated the cracks on the ceiling that Sherlock Holmes knew by heart. He spent little enough time in his bed as it was, but the jagged fissures overhead that haphazardly resembled something of a railway line were familiar enough. There were scores of times that he would lie in this exact position over the years, attempting to empty his mind and quiet his racing thoughts. Now Sherlock stayed perfectly still, stretched out on his back with his hands folded over his bare chest as he stared at the ceiling intently.

It wasn’t superstition that kept his gaze from drifting directly to the left of him, because of course Sherlock knew perfectly well that looking over at the body curled in bed beside him wouldn’t cause it to disappear. The very notion was ridiculous. No matter how heady or strangely rapturous the events that had occurred in this very bed a mere five hours previously had made him feel, it had not in fact been a dream or a substance-induced hallucination. There were four moderately sized finger-shaped bruises already darkening on the pale skin of Sherlock’s right upper thigh to prove it, as well as two much larger ones decorating his neck and collarbone. As it turned out, John Watson was every bit as volatile in the act of sexual intimacy as Sherlock could have ever dared to speculate.

And dared he had. Despite his loathing for pointless fantasy, Sherlock had been unable to chase certain persistent longings away until they threatened to consume him entire. It used to be easy enough to ignore his own unseemly urges and desires until they were given a name, a face, and a voice, and were walking about in his presence constantly to the point of disastrous distraction.

John Watson: the embodiment of every hidden want, urge and feeling that Sherlock had ever locked away. He really was such an ordinary man on the surface, that John. At first glance, he was easily dismissed and sorted away with every other insipid bystander that was hardly worth the bother. Sherlock may have guessed at the truth the first time he laid eyes on John, but it had taken him years to truly work it out. John was the sort of treasure whose value increased by being ignored and forgotten for ages until the trained eye cottoned on to the bloody revelation hiding beneath those plain trappings. John was far more than just a conductor of light, he was the source of it.

No, Sherlock’s reluctance to shift his gaze lay in something more concrete than idle superstition: anxiety. Once he dared to let his eyes lock on the sleeping form beside him, Sherlock was fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to find the resolve to look away. His gaze would become fixed on the spot, and even when timed passed and John was no longer there (and to be honest, who knew if he ever would be again?), he would be left staring at the empty space where the sheets had forever indented to the shape of a sleeping John Watson.

A faint noise to his left finally forced his hand, and when it happened, it was just as he’d feared. Once it slipped over, Sherlock’s gaze was arrested. It took only a matter of seconds to memorize the sight and imprint it on his mind: John, curled on his side with his back to Sherlock. The sheet was half tugged down over his naked torso, and one arm splayed out across the mattress with the other arm tucked under his head. John’s posture was utterly relaxed, his muscles loose of the tension that had drawn them tight and strained from ordeal after ordeal over the years.

Sherlock sensed the moment that awareness began to bleed back into those familiar features, like the flip of a switch. Another soft murmured noise escape John’s mouth—god, the places that mouth had been– when the other man shifted to stretch out his legs. Sherlock froze, barely breathing, as John settled back into a comfortable pose and his posture relaxed again.

A long enough moment passed by, and another, that he was startled when a voice cut through the silence.

“I can feel you watching me,” John murmured in a low voice that was still weighted down with sleep. “You great bloody creeper.”

“Sorry.” Sherlock cleared his throat, willing his eyes to tear themselves away. “I didn’t—“

“No, s’fine.” When Sherlock allowed his gaze to slide back over to John, he could see that the other man had not opened his eyes but a small smile turned the visible corner of his mouth up. After a moment, John shifted to raise his arm slightly, baring the curve of his side. “Come here.”

Sherlock paused, unmoving as he stared at John and his cryptic invitation. At the lack of response, John simply gestured patiently with his raised arm again. Not so cryptic, then.

Swallowing once, Sherlock shifted very slowly and carefully, closing the space between them as though approaching a block of semtex. His body felt clumsy as he moved to fill the space behind John, until John caught his hand and drug it down to wrap Sherlock’s arm around his chest. In an instant, Sherlock found himself rather thoroughly tucked in against the other man’s body, skin warm where it pressed against his own.

Sherlock hesitated a moment before settling his head down on the pillow behind John, allowing the sense of ease and relaxation to bleed through their every point of contact until it eased his own posture as well. His eyes finally falling shut, Sherlock shifted to let the other man’s head settle under his cheek. John’s hair tickled his nose, and Sherlock slowly breathed it in, the musky scent of sex and sweat and _John_ flooding his senses.

 “Mm,” John breathed out in a soft hum, his tone laced with warmth. “Better.”

“John—“ Sherlock began, unsteady.

“No, none of that,” John replied, his hand briefly squeezing Sherlock’s arm. His clear steadiness more than made up for Sherlock’s lack. “Now, we’re sleeping.”

It was acutely embarrassing how something in Sherlock’s chest stuttered at this, at the easy ‘we’, as though it were a foregone conclusion. Sherlock’s arm reflexively tightened, pinning John to him with an air of desperation that he very much hoped wasn’t as obvious as it felt. “Alright.”

 

* * *

 

When John slowly drifted back into consciousness for a second time that morning, he was immediately aware of two key facts:

1\. For the first time in a very long time, John was not dreading the moment when he opened his eyes to face reality for another long day.

2\. He was finding it slightly difficult to breathe.

The cause for this second fact (and possibly the first as well) became apparent when John opened his eyes to assess the situation. He was currently sprawled half on top of a warm body that was all sharp bones and angles, a body that he had just recently become _very_ well acquainted with and had grown rather exceedingly fond of. His head was pillowed on a particularly bony bit of collarbone, but that was fine. What gave him trouble at the moment were the long arms latched around him so tightly it was difficult to draw in a full breath.

Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to be a potentially lethal cuddler.

John shifted slightly, enough to look up at the face of the man who was currently a hair’s breadth from squeezing the life out of him. Sherlock’s eyes were shut and moving behind his eyelids rapidly. Loathe to disturb him, John attempted to gently slip his hand between the other man’s arm and his ribcage. This had the opposite effect from what he was going for: instead of loosening his grip, Sherlock clutched John considerably more tightly in a sudden spasm, as though fighting off whatever was trying to tear him away.

“Sherlock,” John wheezed in mild alarm, and Sherlock’s eyes snapped open at the sound of his voice. The expression on his face was momentarily disoriented. “Breathing. Necessary.”

Sherlock’s grip loosened immediately, arms falling slack at his sides as John sucked in a deep breath of sweet oxygen. The necessities taken care of, John turned his focus back to Sherlock, whose gaze was now trained steadily up at some fixed point on the ceiling.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” This particular refrain had become overly familiar of late, and John frowned as he studied his friend’s blank expression. There was clearly far too much going on inside that remarkable brain at the moment. “Hey,” John murmured, letting one hand slide up Sherlock’s overly lean chest. No matter how many meals John did all but force down the other man’s throat, none of them ever seemed to stick to those bony ribs for long. “Stop that.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked down to John’s face, his eyebrows knitting together in a clear question.

“I can hear you bloody thinking from over here.”

“Isn’t that my line?” Sherlock asked, a faint smile tugging the corners of his mouth up for a brief moment. John felt a smile jump to his own face in answer, and to be honest, he couldn’t remember the last time it had been so easy to just… smile. It was an expression that his face remembered from simpler times, times when it hadn’t more often been creased in worried frustration or sorrow.

Sherlock seemed to welcome it, because his features softened and warmed at the sight of John’s smile. Sherlock’s arms shifted, hesitating before they loosely wrapped around John once more.

“Might be.” John felt the smile settle in on his face, getting comfortable taking up residence there for a decent chunk of time. He couldn’t help but feel that right now, thinking was the enemy. There would be plenty of time later to puzzle and pick apart every nuance of what happened and what it meant. Right now, he just wanted to hold onto that warm feeling of _rightness_ for as long as possible.

During a comfortably long pause, John’s fingers traced over the skin beneath them and he grimaced inwardly at the two purpling marks decorating Sherlock’s lower neck. He could pretend they had been an accident, but that would be an utter lie. “Do you know what I’m thinking about, right this moment?” John asked.

“I’ve given up deducing what goes on in that curious brain of yours,” Sherlock replied quietly as he looked down at John, and it seemed that by the act of speaking he was able to shed the slightly dazed uncertainty that clung to him this morning. It was just as well, because it didn’t suit him at all. “You could say you’ve just cracked the mysteries of the universe or that you’ve been pondering whether you’ll have tea or coffee for breakfast, and neither would surprise me in the least.”

“I choose to take that as a compliment.” John’s smile grew slightly mischievous, and he let his gaze settle pointedly on Sherlock’s mouth for much longer than was strictly necessary.

“Now you’re just being obvious.”

“Am I?”

“Quite.” Sherlock’s tone lacked the acerbic bite it acquired when speaking to pretty much anyone else, and really John could kick himself for taking so long to realize any of this. For years he’d simply taken for granted how gentle Sherlock’s voice became when he was speaking just to John, how often Sherlock’s gaze tracked him like he was the only relevant evidence in the room. Clearly spending all of his time in the presence of a genius hadn’t rubbed off on him at all.

“Good.” John let the intention linger in his eyes for another moment before leaning up to press his lips against Sherlock’s. The way Sherlock froze, as though after all that he still wasn’t really expecting it, did funny things somewhere in the location of John’s chest. John’s hand slid up into Sherlock’s unruly hair, his fingers threading through it as he reveled in the luxury of finally knowing what it felt like to do so. His fingertips traced slow circles around the other man’s scalp, and he felt it, the second Sherlock finally let himself relax and give over to the moment.

Sherlock’s hand settled warm and heavy on the back of John’s neck as he returned the kiss, and if both of their mouths were a little cottony and sour from sleep, neither of them were particularly bothered. It was easy enough to get lost in this, the soft pull of their lips together and the warm slide of tongue against tongue. When he finally drew back ever so slightly to catch his breath, Sherlock’s lips were pink and flushed, and John really wanted to bite them… but there would be time for that, later.

Right now, John was more preoccupied with the way Sherlock was looking at him, with his eyes soft and shining and… happy? Was that it? God, but John hadn’t even known it was possible for Sherlock to look at anyone that way, not sincerely. And it _was_ sincere-- there was a raw, vulnerable edge to the tentative happiness in Sherlock’s expression that John had never seen before, and it gutted him more than a little. Would he have waited this long, had he known? To think of all the time they could have spent doing this, having each other like this, instead of slow-dancing around the obvious for years. There had always been something, some reason not to, but what did any of it matter, now?

“Now I can hear _you_ thinking,” Sherlock remarked quietly. Even backlit with truly shocking reserves of warmth and feeling, those sharp eyes missed nothing. John gave a rueful smile, their mouths still so close that he could feel Sherlock’s hot breath on his lips.

“Right. What we need is a distraction.” John’s smile slowly grew into a grin, as he shifted his weight enough for his body to settle more than a little suggestively against the one sprawled beneath him. From the amount of light that halfheartedly filled the room, John guessed that it was already mid-morning at least. Plenty of time for a second round…or even a third. Hell, they could stay in bed all day for all he could be bothered. “Can you possibly think of one?”

“I can think of seven.” Sherlock seemed to find John’s grin infectious, as it inspired a bright smile of his own. “No, eight. Actually, more like seven point five…”

“Brilliant. Let’s try them all.”


End file.
